


Falling Slowly

by nuabo



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27428284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuabo/pseuds/nuabo
Summary: Seungcheol thought that if he drank enough, he’d forget how Jihoon’s lips felt on his.His feelings came to be far too sober for that liquid confidence.(Or the one where Seungcheol was falling for Jihoon.)
Relationships: Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Lee Jihoon | Woozi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Falling Slowly

...

CHOI SEUNGCHEOL DIDN'T THINK HIS WHOLE BRAIN WAS CONNECTED TO HIS BODY ANYMORE.

His temporal lobe seemed perfectly intact, at least. 

What with his hammering heartbeat and skittish urge to profess a thousand wrong-to-say things. 

He wasn’t a neuroscientist. Not by any means remotely _close_ to that profession.

Still. He did ponder over whether that frontal lobe of his sustained damage. 

Thinking, memory, behavior, and movement all not lined up for decisive operation.

“You don’t have actual brain damage. You’re just drunk. Alcohol impairs how your mind functions.”

The logic made Seungcheol’s cheeks heat up. 

He hadn’t intended to speak his thought process aloud. What with how jumbled and peculiar they were.

“You’re still talking, you know."

_Huh_. Seungcheol hurriedly forced his mouth to stay pressed to a firm line. It was a task in itself to figure out how to be quiet. 

He swore the words flowed naturally, almost like a broken tap. 

Seungcheol wasn’t a poet either.

“What happened?” Seungcheol glanced at the speaker. 

The eyes that met his were concerned; the hue sharpened in clarity with the seriousness stored within their depth. 

Seungcheol wished he hadn’t finished off that last bottle of soju as quickly as he did.

Something in him ached. 

He could kid himself that it was a thirst for the beverage. Not the more plausible need that it was.

“Listen, if you’re not going to answer me then I can’t help you,” the firm pressure of his friend came. 

Seungcheol examined the curt form of Jisoo’s posture. He resorted to a squint in the appraisal.

The state of Jisoo’s attire classy. His condition eternally primed for honourable prospectives. 

Not quite one that matched their actual circumstance. 

A cheap club. Where the hour was late and the mood was grave. 

Neither of them wanted to be there.

Jisoo was a good friend. He even brought napkins to wipe down the countertop of the place. It was all-too rehearsed over the typical affair. He never veered from being gracious.

His expression was kind.

“I like someone I shouldn’t like,” Seungcheol admitted. He hung his head.

With the confession, some form of relief stirred within his gut. That, or it was the heft of the soju.

Either way, Seungcheol found the truth set him free.

Jisoo snorted. “Everyone knows you have a crush on Lee Jihoon.”

Seungcheol glared at his friend for that. He tried to provide a comeback. 

One that could uphold the last pillar of his dignity. How Jisoo tainted the loyalty to their bond without remorse in dismissing the tremendous feat Seungcheol’s declaration was.

The male bemoaned his existence instead.

“You’ve told me you like him on five separate occasions,” Jisoo informed him. “But your sentiment is nice.”

To that, Seungcheol hiccuped. He rounded to the bartender to blare an order for another fill. The urgency to let his inhibitions heightened. It clouded over Jisoo’s warning for him to slow down. 

The sound of the glass mollified him Seungheol when it was set down. He stared, mesmerised. The motion to the tepid liquid battled off the need for Seungcheol to remember anything outside of it.

Loving Jihoon was the taste of fine wine. It burned in the back of Seungcheol’s throat. When he let it sink in, it brought a warm comfort to where the cold prevailed inside. He’d wanted to remain drunk on the portrait of the male. The one he kept locked in the treasure chest of mind. Tipsy on the idea of him. It blurred fine lines and made him irrecoverably dizzy. Perpetually impaired being to the yearning for the other.

There was a flaw in Seungcheol’s code. _If it were love, why did it hurt so much?_

Seungcheol didn’t know. He wasn’t a psychologist or whoever dictated the reason for that hormonal warfare as sound or not.

Jisoo continued to try to persuade Seungcheol to open up. The male had a litany of complaints. His contempt at Seungcheol’s actions was irksome but fair.

Seungcheol knew he should've done the right thing. He should've updated his friend on the dismissal that caused him to drink, and drink again.

That courage to share never came.

As such, Jisoo despaired as time droned on. He remained resolute to tend to Seungcheol, though. Far too patient. 

The generous friend even helped Seungcheol through the worst of a horrible coughing fit that the male erupted into.

As the night depended, Seungcheol knew one thing. It came in bouts; the air stale. His throat like gravel. His lips dry.

Jihoon made it so hard for him to breathe.

...

It was days later when a doctor stood before Seungcheol. 

The clinical detachment of the space made the named male restless. It was too sterile, he supposed.

There was morbidity in how conscious the place was to prevent any slither of illness in. The disconnect to the outside world was staggering. 

The stench of disinfectant stung at Seungcheol’s nostrils. 

The doctor’s expression was pinched in; tightened with a twinge of a foreboding glum. His wrinkles were severe with the gravity of the situation.

It was an apt precursor to what he said next. His professional diagnosis came to cut Seungcheol into pieces.

As if the fabric of his being were nothing. Seungcheol, thin and translucent to pull apart.

“Mr. Choi, you have the Hanhakeri Disease.”

Everything stilled. That is, apart from Seungcheol. He swayed, afraid.

...

Jihoon hadn’t reciprocated their kiss.

Seungcheol remembered how close they’d been. Intimate enough that the flutter of the male’s eyelashes stood out to him.

The older male waited when he pulled back. The trepidation of what he already knew was cruel in his uptake of air.

Vaguely, from some distant plane, someone told him to _speak_. To say anything at all.

The silence was dangerous. It brought upon the theft of much-needed communication.

Jihoon gazed up at Seungcheol. The moonlight brought out the fine shape of his jawline and the pretty twinkle in his eyes. 

It also made the uncertainty apparent in his lips. They moved to resolve what needed solutions. Opened then closed, to just be opened and closed again.

The conflict in Jihoon’s expression brought a shiver down Seungcheol’s spine. 

Jihoon didn’t want him.

Seungcheol crumbled under that knowledge. It was the full force of his doubts and insecurities at once. The torment was brutal.

“I’m sorry,” Seungcheol blurted out. He backed away, unable to look to Jihoon again. 

The taste of ash came upon his tongue. His senses were overloaded and his mind raced. 

Everything came crashing down. The speed of the collision was surreal.

Seungcheol ran.

...

Seungcheol decided to ignore Jisoo after their ‘hangout’. That term not quite adequate, frankly, for that dire time.

Jisoo got placed on the new list of people that Seungcheol was outright avoiding. 

Which, really, was _everyone_.

The Hanahaki Disease was exceedingly rare. The stuff of legend. Seungcheol once took it as complete fiction. 

He worked to seek out information on what the condition was. Mostly, he attached himself to one question that went unanswered: _Why did it have to be me?_

Initially, Seungcheol remained at home. He ignored his phone throughout the calls and texts it was bombarded with.

When his doorbell was the new tactic to get his attention, Seungcheol chose to leave his home in a hurry.

He quite literally shuffled out his backdoor, minimum belongings in tow.

He had no idea what he was doing.

Seungcheol balled up the sheet of recommendations the doctor had given him from his visit. He attended none of the follow-up appointments. 

All he knew was to keep pushing himself into that precious box of safety.

Seungcheol was selfish. He wanted to stay in that isolation. Where no one could demand explanations of him.

Nobody would pity him. There’d be no scolding or regretful tidings. Nothing but his silence was with him.

Because the truth was straightforward about Seungcheol’s absence. His avoidance knowingly instrumental to his worsening condition.

Seungcheol bloomed a garden inside for Jihoon.

It was poetic.

He found that funny, in a twisted, pathetic way. 

The roses he grew weren’t enough. Seungcheol wanted to protect them. The thorns made him bled, the crimson startling and laced with pain.

But: The colour was of love.

Seungcheol was _sure_ of it. 

In his surrender, he poured over snippets of stories that bolstered the power the emotion held. How the feeling was iridescent. Celestial to see, starlight in the embodiment. 

It was for Jihoon. All for him. Seungcheol ardently lived to every tomorrow that his body could permit him.

The consequential drag to remain in yesterday hurt more than the emergence of the many growing buds.

The delicate petals lured him to believe in their romance. Even when unrequited, their scent was heady and intoxicating.

...

Seungcheol would return to the past. Granted, it was just in the maze of his mind. 

Nonetheless, being there was simple. It made the days pass swiftly. 

He’d reminisce about every chance he had, those fleeting seasons of his world.

The vibrancy was all-consuming. Often, his vision blurred. The pain shot through him with such vengeance he thought he'd blackout.

Yet, in the menagerie of people through those resurfaced pieces of himself, Seungcheol found Jihoon. He was only ever a heartbeat away.

That was all the consolation Seungcheol held to.

In each recounted meeting, Jihoon’s voice was enchanting. It drizzled like honey; sweet and melodious. It kindled a haven inside of sorts of Seungcheol. Enthralled him to remain where the sound lasted longest. 

When they used to chat, he found himself leaning in closer. 

He had no clue as to what his feelings were. Innocent and juvenile. 

If you asked Seungcheol how he fell in love with Jihoon, he'd struggle to be at all concise.

Rather, he'd take hours to account for that beginning of it. He fell in love with Jihoon slowly. 

That was what made the notion to fall out of love impossible entirely.

The longer Seungcheol lingered in those repeating days, the duller he became.

...

Wonwoo was the one who barged into his room.

Seungcheol was surprised to witness the intrusion. He'd been too tired to get up from his position. He merely stared ahead.

Of course, Wonwoo suited the knightly role. He’d always been the heroic type. His intentions were loyal and honest. 

Seungcheol observed the younger male from where he rested. The sheen of sweat and worry engraved on the Wonwoo's face startling.

The guilt rattled Seungcheol to the core.

“Hyung,” Wonwoo called. He examined Seungcheol, and his expression changed. It became less livid until it reached an interface of defeated and desperate. 

It made Seungcheol reflect how his brother reacted the same way, albeit less driven to an extreme. How his sibling lost his grip on a prized balloon when they were children. The boy watched, with a level of that devastation, until the object faded entirely from his vision.

Seungcheol remembered how powerless he felt. How he wanted to rectify that matter. It hit him again, at that time.

When Wonwoo approached him, he thought of himself as that kid against the endless sky.

“Hyung,” Wonwoo repeated. He reached out to grasp hold of Seungcheol. 

Seungcheol wanted to ask how Wonwoo tracked him down. He had taken every measure to leave nothing of himself. Quitting his job. Taking out a fraction of his savings and signing the rest in the name of his family. Cutting out his materialistic possessions and bidding that life of his away. He’d done it all with acceptance. He expertly made himself difficult to find. That was his masterplan.

“Hyung.”

Seungcheol tried to picture how Wonwoo managed to access the room.

Granted, the older male has been virtually immobile since he entered the hotel, but the obligation to privacy was something he believed to be vital. 

Even if the staff doubted his health, whatever decline was not of their primary concern.

They had no right to allow anyone to enter his room. None.

Seungcheol deserved a choice. Surely, he had the freedom to let himself live his life on his own terms.

“I missed you,” Wonwoo told him. 

Seungcheol tried to smile for his friend's sake, but it came to be more of a grimace.

Pretty quickly, he found himself drifting into cataclysmic dreams against his will. 

Wonwoo’s pleading unable to keep him conscious of the reality around him.

...

The truth was Seungcheol hung on just in case. He'd always been optimistic. 

He thought maybe, against all odds, he’d wake one day to no more petals falling from his lips.

If he could weather the storm, maybe he’d be okay.

If only he lasted another night.

Jihoon would love him back.

...

Seungcheol was wrong.

  
...

Under the blue sky, his memories were transparent and plentiful.

But Seungcheol yearned for more and he knew that his wish was not one possible. 

The urgency to stay in bliss lost.

That paradise was out of reach.

He choked down too many traitorous tears to retain much hope. 

The calamity of himself overwhelmed his system. Like a beast sank its claws into his chest, that agony piercing.

He needed no more metaphors after that.

...

When Seungcheol blinked away the haze, he was aware of the beeping of a noisy monitor in his proximity.

The ceiling that greeted him was boring. He had no other description to offer it.

He shifted to his side, his body heavy and sore. There was an itch not quite physical Seungcheol possessed. 

It reminded him of trying to cling to the remnants of a pleasant dream.

It was when he detected the presence of another being that Seungcheol was made aware of what escaped him. 

He swore the pattern of the stitches across his skin was alight with flames.

The male across from Seungcheol’s beside sat with a nervous disposition. He gave off the impression that he’d been haggard for quite some time. The stress pulsated off him in waves.

The ghost of someone that once bore Seungcheol's name would've reached out to the male. He'd have smoothened out the furrow of Jihoon's brow. Lightly chided him to allow himself to be sad.

Only, that person wasn't alive.

Seungcheol smiled at Jihoon. Placated and prepared; the mask he donned done so carefully.

“I’m okay,” he told the younger male. Clipped and full of purpose. 

When their eyes met, nothing stirred inside of Seungcheol. 

He was rebuilt anew. The semblance of electricity perished. There was no echo to trace of that past longing.

He felt empty. There was a vacant space where he once stored that affection.

With that confirmation, he laughed. Airy and delicate. No humour was present to it.

When Jihoon raised an eyebrow, Seungcheol told him, “I don’t love you.”

...

When the excavated Seungcheol of the flowers, they told him he’d eventually heal.

Seungcheol found that strange. _Healing_.

He knew he nearly died with the extent of the roses he had kept. They were suffocating him from the inside.

Later, after the surgery and the recovery time in the hospital, he was unable to genuinely recall what he so strongly believed in to sacrifice his life.

He looked to Jihoon when they'd be together. The circle of friends steady as if nothing happened.

Seungcheol wondered: _What was it like for me to bloom those flowers? What was it like to fall in love?_

The thing was, Seungcheol was never able to recapture that sensation again. Those feelings were integral to the roots of the blossoms, and those were gone for good.

Love was but a word to him. It held no merit or pull. The concept was meaningless.

...


End file.
